


Required: Scroll of Identification

by theapplekeeper (Deunan)



Series: Writerverse [15]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alchemy, Crossover, Disintegrating Zombies, Gen, Setting Zombies on Fire, Transdimensional Portal Jumping, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deunan/pseuds/theapplekeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eugene Tithe is a Cleric, but that’s only a technically because he'd still kill undead even if he’d gone into the more esoteric filed of Sorcery.</p><p>(Or: In which Eugene is ruled by three tenets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eugene, The Cleric

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJcomm: Writersverse and their Challenge #24: Weekly Quick Fic #12 (word prompt: Duty).

Eugene Tithe had such a way about him it could be called _The Way_ with all the nuisances and required capitals associated with the eccentric rich. He went where he wanted, did what he wanted, and only rarely got in trouble for it. When that Trouble came, it was in a form he could handle, with a bit of prayer, some odd luck, and a lot of dead left in his wake, he was left to continue on as before, an ancient relic in hand and a gold or two added to his bag.

Eugene had a Policy too, and much like his Way, it is both simple and absolute. Kill the undead. Kill the living, too, should they prove a problem, but absolutely kill the undead. It's a duty, technically, but Eugene came late to priesthood and chafed at the thought of such demands being made-- even when his celestial patron of choice had descended from her godly position on overwatch to decree it in person. He had been killing the undead since puberty, after all, and it’s not like he was even close to setting aside this particular vendetta to loaf about as a temple Acolyte.

Eugene had a Creed, a Motto if you will, that rounded everything else out rather splendidly. Adapt or die. That’s it. That was all.

It was all he needed.


	2. Not Made in Georgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romanda is on her own, has been for a week, and she’s not above leaving the short, crazy(magical?) man behind to fend for himself. But this is less about her getaway than it is about Eugene Willihamay Tithe the Third.
> 
> (Or: When they meet, she introduces herself as Sassafras, because she could.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for LJcomm: Writersverse and their Challenge #24: Weekly Quick Fic #12 (word prompt: Mist).

Romanda had been known to her friends as Mindy, but for all that mattered, when they met, she introduced herself as “Sassafras, like the tree.”

“Eugene Willihamay Tithe the Third,” he had said, ever so casually, and tossed something glass-like and breakable at the dead-heads shambling their way. “Now would be the time to make a strategic retreat, miss, you don’t look properly kitted out for such a daring encounter.”

She thought herself better ‘kitted out’ than the whatever he was ( _don’t say dwarf, don’t say it – it doesn’t matter that the world ‘s gone to hell, your mama raised you better_ ) from wherever he came from ( _don’t think yellow and brick, just don’t Romanda!_ ). She at least wasn’t wearing a skirt. She at least wasn’t armed with a … with a _stick_? No, wait, she knew this one. Stave. Yes, a stave. Like one of Robin’s Merry Men. 

Romanda took his suggestion all the same and strategically retreated herself out of dodge. To her car. With her hard-won bag of supplies. Without the crazy small man in medieval armor. Because, yeah, okay, Merry Man had been close as it wasn’t just a leather skirt he was wearing. But chainmail. And she knew people like him existed. (Or had, before the dead refused to stay dead and she wouldn’t even think the Z-word. Really. She would not.) Because she would have been living in a vacuum if she hadn’t known about the uber-geeks and their crazy Cheer-like conferences on East and West coasts because JJ Abrams had made fantasy chic and she hadn’t been living in a vacuum, okay? 

Okay.

_athe in, Min. Thatta girl. Breathe in and one and two. And out, one, two. And in_

Knuckles white on the steering wheel she looked back at Eugene the Third and rather wished she hadn’t. For sanity sake. Clearly. Because the dead-heads that had swarmed their way? Yeah. They were dead. Like properly dead. On the ground and unmoving. With smoke wafting up from asphalt and twirling about without a lick of wind and— _and dear god in heaven, they’re disintegrating._

She threw her car into reverse and strategically retreated even farther out of dodge.


End file.
